Ahh shit. I hate pooh.

          Ahh shit. I hate pooh.

I really do. Pooh smells like shit too. Like this morning for instance. I opened the boys door and WHAM, like stepping in a pile of dog doo barefoot, the stench was horrendous.

I always told myself that my kids better be potty trained by the time they start talking. I really don’t want to be bent over a stinky diaper wiping some kids butt while he tells me about how he played with the kids down the street, or what movie he wants to go watch. There is just something unnerving about it, that I can’t quite put my finger in, but it just is.



And guess what? I’m a failure. I failed at breaking the average boys age of being potty trained. Now he may only be average. Having an average kid sucks. I so wanted him to wipe his own butt by now. For one thing, I was looking forward to changing the title of my blog. Can’t quite do that yet. My mom said she had all five of us boys potty trained by the age of two. Can you believe that? Good lord. I spend enough time in the bathroom myself. Now having to sit in there with him…..ugh.

He’s talking. Up a storm. Yesterday I counted a ten word sentence. Ten words. Sure it may have been a run-on, but ten fucken words. In a row. Without skipping a beat. At twenty eight months, and he’s popping out ten glorious understandable poetic, ahem, words like a regular Milton. Do you know the significance of that?

So, the significance? Yeah, well this means that I’m a slacker. That’s the significance. It means that I should just retire early, and go find one of those illegal immigrants to raise my boy and teach him how to wipe his butt. Everyones doing it around here, over in the upper middle. Hell, on a typical beach going day, as I go check out the waves, I see more illegal immigrants pushing strollers with other peoples children in them than I do parents. Around here it is the norm. Maybe they need to for financial reasons, and that would be okay I suppose. (nah). So maybe I need to. Would that be okay Lilly/ Would it? Because Jah knows I can’t teach this dang kid to wipe his own butt.

And Mr Pants has control now. When he runs around the house for a few hours wearing three pairs of underoos over the top of each other, he won’t go. He rarely pees in them. But when we toss a dipe back on his bum, he lets it all out.

And when he hasn’t taken a leak in several hours, then finally lets it all out overflowing his diaper until he wizzes all down his leg and onto the floor. Well that’s what I call bladder control. Now it’s just a matter of teaching him how to control where he puts it. “Boy!” I mean “Son. Go take a leak in the pot son. You can do it. Yeah that’s it. Sit on the pot like a good boy. Damnit boy! Go riiiiight now!” I mean, “Oh what a good liitle kid to sit on the potty all by him little self. How bout a story. Yeah. Yeah you wanta read a story? Otay. You sob, peeee! I mean, time to make wee time.Take a leak in the pot.”

But really, It’s all my fault. I am avoiding it like going to bed before midnight. I just don’t have the patience for it.



Screw that. I’m gonna outsource. “Lilly! Where are you?” (That’s how I outsource. Insource, it’s the new outsource.)